Needy
by Enkidu07
Summary: Dean's injured on a hunt.  It'd make anyone feel a little needy.  A short fic for InSecret's birthday.


**Title**: Needy  
**Author**: Enkidu07  
**Disclaimer**: These characters are really really not mine. Though, I love them as if they were my own.  
**A/N**: This fic is a belated birthday present for the lovely and miscellaneous InSecret. It didn't go the direction I intended. I decided to go with it. Because that's the way I roll. I hope you find a little nugget in here to enjoy, buddy! Thanks for the inspiration and I hope your birthday was happy! Oh, and there's a Mad Server inspired bit. It just happened.

* * *

Dean's been sick enough for anesthesia five times to my count. Tonsils at eight, though I don't remember much aside from him sleeping through Thundercats and days of purple popsicles. Appendix at fourteen. Dean spent the week on the couch, sweaty and sore. He had knee surgery a couple years later, then lost his wisdom teeth that spring. The last was blunt trauma right before I left for Stanford. That was the worst. Abdominal bleeding and a hospital stay.

So I know the drill. After anesthesia, Dean starts groggy, moves into clammy, dives right into uncomfortable. By the time he's released and we hit the motel-of-the-week, uncomfortable morphs into actual pain.

I think pain-free nausea should logically be better than pain-induced nausea, but Dean's stubborn and says the pills make him sick. So I know to bide my time and Dean's defenses will eventually come down. Or he'll pass out. Either one works.

"Sam."

Dean's call startles me. "Yeah?"

"Eyes itch."

"Yeah, I know. Close 'em. Go back to sleep." That's kind of dumb because his eyes aren't even open.

"Oh."

I guess it works because he settles down again.

* * *

"Sam."

I had nodded off in the chair. I should have tried to sleep more during the surgery. But there was coffee to drink. Pacing to be done. And, you know, my brother maybe dying in the next room. The chair thumps to the floor, pitching me towards the bed.

"Yeah?"

"Side hurts."

"Yeah? Lemme see." I lift the covers, flip up Dean's shirt. The bandage is white. Beautifully white. No brotherly blood leaking through. The tape is pulling, puckering the skin over Dean's abdomen. Red irritation mars the pale surface. I brace Dean's ribs and carefully tug the tape free.

"Ow!"

"Easy." I leave the tape loose and tug the covers back up. "Better?"

Hooded eyes consider. "Yeah."

"Good. Sleep."

* * *

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Feel sick."

"Nauseous?"

"Uhhhm, wobbly."

"Wobbly?" I grin. "That's good. Wobbly's okay. Stay still. You want something to eat?"

"I don't know."

"I've got crackers. Don't want to throw up, Dean, you'll rip your stitches. I've got meds too."

"Ok."

I'm not sure which part he's agreeing to. I slip the pills in his hand anyway.

* * *

"Stop, Dean."

"What're you doing?" A rogue hand flaps at me but he still doesn't open his eyes.

"Fixing your face. Have to keep it clean and dry and you're sweating all over the place." I dab carefully at Dean's abraded brow, take the time to part his hair to cleanse the scalp. It's kind of uneven where they shaved parts of it off. I think I'll let him figure that one out on his own.

"Burns."

"Yeah, road rash'll do that. Hold still." Dean's a captive audience.

* * *

"Sam."

"What?"

"Gotta sneeze."

"Don't do it." I shake my head, palm Dean's side and try to give his incision some support while he fights for control.

"HUT-Athhchnp."

"Fuck. Dean?"

"Nnnnnnnnnngh."

I pull the covers back again. Still white. Dean's pretty much out so I rip the bandage all the way free to get a better look. His chest is clammy too. It feels suspiciously like fever. "Damn it, Dean. Don't do this."

"Uhhnnnnngh."

* * *

Six days and a fucking chest cold later, I'm really done. I'm not sure how dad did this. I mostly remember him there after surgeries. And I've been thinking about it and I don't remember that much yelling. I eye the bottle of Jack.

Dean's feeling better. I know because he's past the clingy and passing out portion of the program and has moved right into grouchy and, well, still kind of clingy part.

"Sam."

"What, Dean?" I hear the irritation in my voice. I do. But, _come on_.

"I'm thirsty."

"Your water bottle is fucking right there."

"You get it."

"Dean."

"Sam." Dean's splayed on the bed. He actually still doesn't look great. Pasty. Needs a shower. Could use a serious dose of sunshine. His left cheek and his temple are mostly scabbed over in a decidedly Phantom of the Opera way. His abdomen's healing and it's gotta hurt, but he won't take the meds, so, really, that's his problem. Another day and we'll get to fight over taking the stitches out.

I count to ten, mostly just to make him wait, and get up and get the water bottle, move it the five inches to his hand. Dean lethargically blinks up at me and I swear he's going to ask me to drink it for him. "What?"

"Can you take the cap off?"

Oh, I'd like to take his cap off.

I'm pretty sure he's messing with me. If he actually needed the help, he'd never ask. That thought makes me feel a little more patient. "Yeah. I got it. Don't spill."

His snigger is worth it.

* * *

end.


End file.
